


Make or Break

by renwhit



Series: Road to Damascus [9]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cane user Jon, Canon-Typical Lonely Brand Depression, Canonical Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Discussions of Suicide, End!Tim, Gen, Ghost!Tim, Manipulation, Martin looks at his relationships and says "is anyone gonna destroy those", Non-Canonical Character Undeath, POV switch, Ship Teasing, and then doesn't even wait for an answer, but that teasing is Real sad, hurt/some comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23202778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renwhit/pseuds/renwhit
Summary: He’d been waiting for Martin to turn around like this. For him to cut his last cord out of the loneliness.Expecting a blow never softened the collision.Or, in which keeping watch over a soul is not the same as keeping it safe.
Relationships: Background Jonathan Sims & Martin Blackwood, Basira Hussain & Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker
Series: Road to Damascus [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594225
Comments: 65
Kudos: 371
Collections: GerryTitan verse





	Make or Break

**Author's Note:**

> this one's Heavy everybody so hold onto your asses
> 
> suggested listening: ghost by jacob lee

Finally alone. Simon had given Martin a lot to process, and Basira accosting him afterwards hadn’t helped anything. Second guessing every moment he spent relishing solitude was a waste of time. He couldn’t change his isolation, anyway. Not when that was the whole point. 

Maybe being burnt out by two conversations would have been worth some worry in the past. Martin wasn’t sure he missed the alternative. This quiet was nice. Gentle. 

He should visit his mother soon. Long walks through the cemetery were nice in the same way the quiet was — gentle and melancholy in a way easy to indulge. Melancholy in the way that drew towards watching rain fall.

Whether Martin should or shouldn’t relish the solitude was irrelevant. If he couldn’t change it, he could find something to appreciate in it. It wasn’t as if he needed the encouragement, anyway. He’d always enjoyed a good amount of alone time — introvert all the way through. 

“So, you want to tell me what Simon Fairchild was doing wandering the Institute?”

And here came the extrovert king himself. Joy of joys.

“Basira already read me the riot act, you can ask her.”

Tim dropped into the chair across from Martin’s desk. “Considering I doubt you told her anything anyway, might as well ask the man himself.”

“Peter sent him to answer some questions,” Martin replied as he turned to his computer in a futile attempt to get Tim to leave. “That’s all.”

“Just a regular old q-and-a, huh? So, what, hit him with tough ones like _cake or pie?”_ It sounded like a mere joke, but Martin knew it was a precursor to plenty more targeted needling. 

“He just elaborated on some things Peter didn’t.”

“What, that the secret correct answer is ice cream? Bold.”

Martin shot Tim a dry look. “Did you have something you _actually_ wanted to ask, or…?”

“Mostly wondering about why he felt like… _that.”_

“What?” 

Tim scrubbed a hand over his square jaw, looking thoughtful. “Something about him felt wrong. Like, _really_ wrong.”

“Wrong how?” Martin pressed.

“This is just a guess but… Was one of those questions you asked anything about how old he was?”

That caught him a little off guard, but he supposed it made sense. “He said he used to be an apprentice of Tintoretto, who—”

“Died in 1594, making Simon over here about four hundred and fifty.” Tim’s face twisted. “Hate that.”

“Do you need to go— I don’t know, reap his soul or something?” 

“Eldritch bossman isn’t pulling me his way, so I guess not. His own boss must give him some leeway,” Tim said as he folded his arms. “I could swear I’ve felt that before, though. The same kind of _wrong._ Not near as strong as Simon, but the man’s half a millennium old, so.”

“Probably from Peter. He hasn’t said directly, but I’m pretty sure he’s had a longer lifespan than any non-avatar,” Martin replied. 

“Mm, probably.” Tim didn’t look quite satisfied with that, but didn’t continue. Martin chose not to push the matter further. _He_ knew how to mind his own business. 

Speaking of. “I have a lot I need to get done. Space?” Irritatingly, Tim never left him _alone_ unless Martin spelled it out for him. Sometimes he didn’t have the energy to spare on telling Tim to leave in full — those times Tim was still quiet, and Martin could work. Fine. Today, after the much more fraught conversations with Simon and Basira, Martin craved a room he didn't have to share. 

Tim didn’t ask anything of him even on the days he stuck around. Occasional conversation, maybe, but he knew when to pull back. All the same, him being there brought some strange feeling of expectation; him or anyone else. It was like there was something Martin was supposed to do or say to cater to the other person with him. Being alone meant he didn’t have to worry about that. He didn’t need to keep up pleasant small talk, or try and figure out what they were looking for even if they didn’t ask for anything in particular. 

Everyone wanted something. Martin wanted to be alone, and he would’ve thought the ease of that meant he’d get it without having to fight. All it required was inaction, the easiest thing in the world. 

He should have known better, especially with Tim around to walk right through whatever barriers might be there. Stubborn ass.

Tim didn’t make a fuss about Martin’s request, but Martin knew well by now it was only because he’d be back — he apparently didn’t know when to cut his losses.

Wearing an easy smile, Tim shot him with a pair of finger guns. “Sure thing. Back soon, yeah?”

Martin didn’t bother to reply. It wasn’t as if Tim needed any encouragement in his pestering. He’d be back, and back, and back. The concept of ghosts following the same path they did in life was an old one, and not one Martin was glad to have proof of.

Silent as ever, Tim left. Martin wondered if he should feel something in the absence.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It wasn’t that Martin wanted to be _lonely._ It was that he wanted to be _alone._ They weren’t the same thing, no more than any cause and its effect were. He wanted to be alone, loneliness was the side effect. 

Besides, this was for them. No one else needed to get hurt if he played his cards right. 

It got a little trickier when Tim wouldn’t leave him be _,_ of course. None of the things he did to ensure the others left him to finish this duty worked on Tim. Unlike Jon, there was no (mostly) straightforward respect for Martin’s wishes. Unlike Melanie, Tim wasn’t already doing all he could to get out, no encouragement needed. Unlike Daisy, Martin couldn’t pile on cutting word upon cutting word until time with him was no longer worth the effort. Unlike Basira, he couldn’t combine obstinance and practicality in a way that would be allowed to let lie for the time being. 

Yes, there was a distant sort of gladness that Tim was no longer in the place he was before the Unknowing. All the same, _that_ Tim would have been much, much easier to get to leave him alone. That Tim would have sprinted the distance Martin wanted to build if it meant getting him that much further from the Institute, and though he might try to take Martin with him across that distance, he would run it either way. That Tim would’ve been plenty safe from whatever Peter’s plans were, and would have made no trouble for the walls of the Lonely sprouting up all around them.

That Tim also blew himself up. Remembering that, all Martin’s bitter nostalgia fled and left him just feeling ill. Maybe it was those thoughts that made Martin a little more willing to let Tim linger the next time he returned. 

More importantly, it gave Martin an opportunity for revenge. The week before, Tim had nabbed a letter opener from his desk and declared only, “I wonder what would happen if—” before planting it in the nearest outlet. He’d made a very good show of electrocution before he broke character with howling laughter. Martin had sworn at him at length for it, of course, and he was still trying to bring down his blood pressure to something outside heart attack range. 

Yes, he wanted Tim to leave him alone. If Tim was going to be here anyway, he might as well take advantage of that.

When Tim came in while Martin was at the bookshelf across from his desk, he saw his chance.

“I’ve been officially banned from artifact storage!” Tim proclaimed in place of a greeting. 

“Oh, yeah?” Martin replied, mild as he ever was these days. 

Still laughing at some memory or another, Tim went to sit. “Don’t think they realize that’s not a _ban,_ it’s a _challenge.”_

It was childish, but there were only so many things that’d work on a ghost. Maybe Tim just brought out the childish in Martin with his own ridiculous pranks. 

Nonchalant, Martin reached behind him to grab the back of Tim’s chair and pulled it towards him, still facing the bookshelf like he’d done nothing at all.

“I mean, I only ever got in as deep as the collection of cursed Ouija boards, and honestly — if they didn’t want me to mess with the Ouija boards, they should have locked them in one of the cases.”

No surprise. No shout. Martin knew there wouldn’t be any sound of _falling_ , but Tim wasn’t exactly a spokesman for composure. That should have gotten him.

He turned around, and at the sight could only breathe, “Oh, _unfair.”_

Tim looked over his shoulder from where he sat on nothing but thin air. “What?” When he saw the chair still in Martin’s loose grip, he looked down. “Wait, what the hell?”

“So, is this a… a new trick, or…?”

Holding rather still, Tim said, “I— I didn’t know it was a _thing_ , but I’ve… never had to think about staying in chairs, or— or anything, so I guess not?”

“You _guess—”_

“I don’t have a bloody manual for ghost crap!”

Martin awkwardly moved the chair forward again until it was back under Tim. It wasn’t that Tim needed it, so it would seem, but him sitting on air looked bizarre. There wasn’t any reason for Martin to give himself a migraine trying to make his head accept that nonsense.

“Might as well get writing, then. You’ve got an untapped market.”

Terrifyingly, there was genuine contemplation on Tim’s face. “I bet if I went to my old publishing house—”

“This is already a terrible idea.”

Tim grimaced. “Yeah, didn’t exactly leave there with a love note. I knew plenty of people at _other_ houses, though—”

“Who all think you’re very dead,” Martin cut it as he made his way back to his desk.

Undaunted, Tim sent him a crooked grin. “ _Meaning_ I’ve got some damn solid credentials.”

Martin rolled his eyes, then dove into the nightmare that was his endlessly-full email inbox. Tim went quiet as if on cue.

Martin wasn’t an idiot. He knew that it _was_ on cue, and that Tim was trying to walk a line between not pushing too much while also keeping him company. He knew it was for _him._

He wondered then if he should feel gratitude. If he should feel anything but tired.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Tim’s next entrance was silent as always, but the usual mild irritation that came with it fled to make room for what might’ve been concern. There was always a sort of hollowness around Tim’s eyes that Martin assumed came with death, and now it was heavier than ever. Though his eyes were naturally black, the darkness was somehow deeper despite the nonsense of a blacker sort of black. His shoulders hung low.

“Everything alright?”

Tim didn’t look at him, only sat in that same chair, tilted his head back with eyes closed, and folded his arms across his chest. “Long day.”

Martin didn’t ask for more information, and Tim offered none. Whatever constituted as a long day for an avatar of death, Martin didn’t think he wanted to know.

There was no expectation in the company now. Martin felt like there was something he should do anyway. What that might be, there was no telling. 

He did nothing. They were silent.

Without a window in his office, the only gauge Martin had for time’s passage was the clock on the corner of his screen. Inconsequential and easy to ignore. When movement from Tim caught his attention, Martin almost missed that hours had gone by.

Tim’s eyes were still shut, but now he passed something from one hand to the other and back again.

“Did— Did you nick that from my desk?”

A quiet huff mimicked laughter as Tim cracked an eye open. The blackness there no longer looked quite so… _void._ “Ages ago. Kept forgetting to bring it up here.” He held a blue stress ball towards Martin. The amount of wear on it surprised him — Tim’s hands couldn’t leave any scuffs. How much did he carry it around, that’d it look so well-used? “Sorry.”

It wasn’t like Martin did anything with it besides watch it collect dust. “It's alright. You can keep it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. It might as well be a paperweight around here.”

Tim didn’t protest after that, just went back to passing it from hand to hand with eyes once again shut — like he was making a point to focus on nothing but his hands and the object they held. 

No, if Martin took it back then he would think of those hands every time he looked at it. Reminders such as that were best left avoided. Tim would leave and take it with him, and Martin wouldn’t miss anything.

That was that.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The next time movement at Martin’s office door grabbed his attention, he was caught off guard to see Peter rather than Tim.

Was he disappointed? It was hard to tell these days. What he _did_ know was that he had to shove some trace of expression beside his usual indifference down. 

Peter’s eyes caught on Martin’s face before he did so. Martin would only have to pray he didn’t see, or if he did, that he didn’t make the exact wrong conjectures. Martin had no reason to expect anyone besides Peter in his office, and he certainly had no reason to feel anything besides indifferent towards them as well. 

And, for a while, it seemed that nothing was out of place. Peter bloviated as usual — far longer than any avatar of the Lonely had right to, but what did Martin know? 

It wasn’t until Peter went to leave for some vagary or other that he turned back to Martin with a pleasant smile. “Oh, I forgot to mention! I had a fascinating conversation with Tim recently. Did he tell you?”

Any other time Peter spouted nonsense, brushing him off took little effort. This was different. “...Tim said you two hadn’t met.”

“Did he? Odd, considering we spoke not even twenty steps from your office door.” 

Martin had nothing to say to that, not when he was trying to understand Peter’s angle. Was he lying? It’d be easy to believe that, but Peter didn’t lie to him. Misrepresent the truth, yes. Phrase things to intentionally mislead, of course. Leave out key details, no question.

He didn’t lie.

“Yes," Peter went on when he was met with silence. "He actually appealed quite well to my own interests with a bet!” 

“A bet?”

Peter nodded with a play at looking thoughtful, as if he had to make an effort to recall something he so enjoyed telling. “It’s funny, it was actually over the same thing as our own deal. He must have thought that yours wasn’t enough.”

It wasn’t that Martin hadn’t considered that Peter might be overstating what actual protection he could provide. It was that no one else was supposed to make their own gamble. 

“And what was the wager?” He might as well play along, here as much as anywhere.

Eyes shining, Peter answered, “Well, apparently if something attacked the Institute and I failed to stop it, I was supposed to — oh, how did Tim put it — _piss off into the Lonely.”_

Taking everything he knew about the Extinction with him. Taking everything he knew about whatever tool was under the Institute. Damning them all.

“And if you won?”

“That was the most interesting part of the conversation, I have to say.” If Peter didn’t tone down how much he was clearly relishing this, Martin would— 

Not do anything, of course, but he’d be bitter about it.

“He made a very good point that as lonely as any one man might be, one of the dead is lonelier. If that member of the dead is already touched by Beholding as well, even better.”

…What?

“He also said something about not arguing every step of the way on our project, but I assume he just thought he would find some way to subvert everything from the inside.” Peter’s head tilted. “I never thought Mr. Stoker was the sort to make a play at being hero, but then I’m not nearly as good as Elias about predicting people.” He said Elias’s name with no small amount of distaste. “Anyway, that was all. Just thought you’d be interested!”

“Did— Did you take the bet?”

“Martin,” Peter replied with a fondness that Martin knew was just as much for show as it was genuine. “I wouldn’t abandon you like that. No, we work far too well together for me to change anything now.”

_Abandon,_ as if he wouldn’t be glad if he never saw Peter again.

No, that wasn’t true. He needed to keep Peter invested in _him_. Keep his eyes off Jon — and now, it seemed, Tim. Tim, who’d lied to Martin’s face. Tim, who decided to make this stupid, pointless power play that Martin could have _told_ him would fail if Tim had _talked_ to him. 

A wave, and Peter was gone. Martin sank back at his desk, thoughts racing to no end but the need to make sure this didn’t happen again. He’d dragged his feet burning that bridge, and this was the consequence. Now Tim, impulsive, bold, stupid Tim had gotten Peter’s attention. 

If Martin made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with Tim, maybe that’d keep Peter from pursuing that line of interest. He’d left Jon alone this far, and if Martin could count on anything it was that Peter wouldn’t seek out a conversation if he had a good enough reason not to.

Martin wondered if he should be hurt. Uncertain. There was only fog, and he couldn’t even work up concern for that alone.

  
  


* * *

  
  


When Tim came into his office with a tight smile on his face and blood on his shirt, Martin wasted no time.

“So, when were you planning on telling me?”

Tim stopped in his tracks. “What?”

“That you lied to me.” The words came with a heat Martin didn’t feel.

“I— I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Martin.” Tim didn’t even look cornered, just confused. 

“Peter told me—”

“You’re trusting whatever bullshit _Peter_ said?” Confusion made way for growing insult as tension pulled Tim’s body into sharp angles. “You sound like Jon when he was in full paranoia mode — y’know, when he spent months accusing us of shit we didn't do. You know that, right?”

That almost made Martin falter, but no. No, not when there was something actually wrong. 

“ _You_ told me you hadn’t met Peter. _He_ mentioned you two talking.” 

Tim threw his hands in the air with an exasperated sound. “Because we talked _after_ you asked me! What is _with_ the cross-examination here?”

“You know what, fine. Sure.” Martin could believe that. It wasn’t what made him the most — angry? Was he angry? “It’s more what the conversation was _about_ that I wanted to discuss.”

Tim drew upright, shoulders squared and plenty of that old heat on his face. “Did you want to discuss, or did you just want to shout for a while? Because if you want to yell, I’m glad to go until you work that out of your system, and we can actually talk.”

“Oh, that’s _rich_ from you.” There was no small amount of venom to his words now. _“Actually talk_ like we did about you trying to make your own bet with Peter? Talk like we did about that?” 

“It didn’t go anywhere, so I didn’t think it mattered,” Tim said with his jaw set.

“So if it _had,_ would you have bothered, or would that not have mattered too because I wouldn’t be involved? Does—” Martin stood from his desk with a wordless noise of frustration. “Does _everyone_ here think I’m incapable of making my own decisions?!” 

“It’s not that you can’t, it’s—”

Martin cut in. “If you’re about to say that I can and I’m just being _stupid,_ or making a bad call because— because I don’t _know better,_ you can—”

“I know you’re damn smart, Martin, which means I know that you’re actively choosing to put yourself in danger.” Tim’s voice was firm and brooked with the fire that always burned whenever he got invested, _really_ invested in something. 

That was the problem. That was the fire Martin needed to put out, because that would be what kept Tim away. Every emotion drained from his words, and he filled the gaps with nothing but ice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t, do I?” There was a different sort of smile on Tim’s face now, something sharp and incredulous. “You’re spending all your time alone, and every time you have to talk to any of us it’s all designed to push us away. You’ve decided you have this job that needs to be done and you’re limiting the fallout. Who the hell do you think that reminds me of?”

He was wrong, of course. This was different. “You can stop projecting whenever you’d like, Tim.”

Tim laughed in a burst of sparking anger. “Projecting, sure. When’s the last time you thought about your own safety in any of this, huh? When’s the last time you believed that you might make it out the other side of this whole deal you have with Peter?”

He needed Tim to go, he needed to be alone. He needed to be alone. 

“I haven’t _had_ to think about it, because no one is _dying_.”

“Right, that’s why you’re pulling all the same shit I did.” Tim knew how to fill a room both in voice and presence, and he didn’t hold back now. “I wrote the g-ddamn playbook for this move, and I’m not letting you charge off to get yourself killed!” 

“Oh, but if it’s you, it’s different, then?” 

Shit, that was an admittance. He just had to pray Tim was too angry to catch it. He had to make Tim leave. He had to. Before Peter came back, before Martin said too much. Before Tim — stupid, bold, brave Tim — did something he couldn’t take back.

“I’m already dead, Martin! I’m dead! I’m dead because I saw that plan through, and I’m not going to let you join me in another pointless g-ddamn suicide!”

“Well you don’t need to worry about me going that far, because _I_ don’t plan to go out like a coward.”

Dead silence.

Martin wondered if he should feel panic. Regret. Anything but gentle, cold ache.

“T-Tim, I—”

Tim held up one hand. His face was stone. No trace of fire now, none of that burning passion. There was no telling how long it was before he spoke, but it felt like eons. 

“I know you didn’t mean that.” Each word ground out of him, and Martin wished he would just shout like he so clearly wanted to. “And that you’re trying to get rid of me. I’m going to go so I don’t say something I regret. You can apologize later.”

Meaning he would be back. Meaning stubborn, brave, stupid Tim wasn’t gone for good. 

Martin had nothing to say. He wanted to apologize, he did, but if he didn’t, if he pretended he wasn’t sorry, would that work?

The fact that he was still thinking about how to best get Tim to hate him even after saying something so awful made him feel almost, almost sick. 

Tim was gone. 

Martin sank down to sit again and put his face in his hands. 

He couldn’t even make himself cry, and somehow that was the worst part of all. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Tim couldn’t feel anything past the blinding, scorched wall of _wrong._ Where hurt met anger met all-consuming fear, it was impossible to tell. All he knew was that it overwhelmed. 

All this after a very shitty morning, too. Car wreck. Two deaths. Ugly wounds, and only one died on impact. 

They had a much worse morning than him, obviously, so any other time he’d feel like a dick for complaints even just in his head. Right now, nothing could get past the endless red glare of _too much._

He’d been waiting for Martin to turn around like this. For him to cut his last cord out of the loneliness. 

Expecting a blow never softened the collision. 

Without any true thought, his steps carried him to Basira’s office. Empty. Maybe she was out with Daisy. Maybe she was pulling some new scrap of information from Elias. Wherever she was, it wasn’t here, and that was— fine. It was fine. 

Tim’s palms itched with a need to do _something,_ but there was no telling what. Scream? Throw things? Storm back up to Martin’s office to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and say, _I care about you, you g-ddamn idiot, and if all you’re considering is the arithmetic of your own worth then how the hell do I make you see your life is worth more than your death_?

Bit wordy, especially when he’d have to choke it out around the volcanic nightmare taking root between his silent lungs. He’d end up tangled in a web of thick emotion, no doubt, and make it that much easier for Martin to categorize Tim’s helpless, burning fear for him as hatred.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

That same worn, blue ball sat right where Tim left it near the archive door this— _this_ morning? — and taunted him with its own purpose. Tim was plenty fucking stressed now, and no bit of foam and plastic would help. Not when just looking at the damn thing reminded him of the ghost of a smile on Martin’s face when he told Tim to keep it. 

Magma erupted up Tim’s throat. He snatched the cursed thing and pitched it at the far wall with a wordless shout of frustration and no care for where it hit.

“Oh— Um. You… dropped this?”

Tim looked over to see Jon by that wall. Didn’t look like it hit him, thankfully, but it must have been a near thing if his wide jackrabbit eyes were anything to go by.

Not bothering to reply, Tim pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and tried to make himself— not breathe, but calm down somehow. 

“Is… everything alright?”

Tim bit back the, _W_ _hat the hell does it look like?_ that jumped first to his lips. “Talked with Martin. Argued with him.”

Jon stood further upright, hand tight on his cane. “Is _he_ alright?”

Christ, Tim didn’t want to have this conversation right now. Whatever. Not like he could blame Jon for being concerned. “He’s just trying to get rid of me. Doing his damn best at it. I just— just needed some space for a bit. Not gonna let it slide, obviously, but I’m also not leaving for good.”

“What— Did he—” A pause. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Without looking over and teeth still gritted, Tim said, “No. No, he didn’t— he didn’t mean what he said.” There was no reason for Jon to worry about an apology not yet given for something not directed at him and never believed in the first place. 

Jon’s cane made gentle tapping noises as he approached, still cautious. “I don't— Oh.” Another pause. “ _Oh,_ he— G-d, Tim, I—”

“Don’t,” Tim snapped. Fire crawled under his skin as his hands dropped down to curl tight at his side. “You picked a _really_ bad time for that Eye shit, Jon.” 

Jon swallowed hard enough Tim could see his head move, immediate guilt all over his face. “I’m so—”

“I _know_. I know.” Tim ran both hands back over his face. “I know.”

Another brief pause, then Jon came up further to stand at Tim’s side. “I… I don’t know what we do now. How we help him.”

Tim could only shake his head. It wasn’t as if he knew any better, not when his tentative half-plan was always a temporary measure and seemed to be reaching its inevitable end. 

He ached to lean just slightly to the side and let their shoulders brush. With that burn still threaded between his ribs, he didn’t trust words to get across whatever the hell it was he felt. 

It didn’t matter either way. He had no words, and he could not touch. 

There was no death here, but it felt like he was Witnessing regardless.   
  


* * *

It was almost impressive how easily a man as big as Martin could go unnoticed. Tim was sure he was only able to track him down because of that warm light in the center of all the misdirecting fog — and he knew how it looked when others’ eyes skipped right over a presence that shifted though empty shadow. 

Short of it was, he was a lot harder for Martin to shake off with the vanishing act bullshit. 

When he just caught sight of Martin’s sweater vanishing around the corner of a half-lit, barely used hallway, Tim had no intention of watching him pull that act again.

“Martin! Hey—” He picked up the pace to find Martin with back still to him, just barely looking over one shoulder. “Can we talk?”

“I really don’t have time, can it wait ‘til later?”

“Considering _later_ means _never,_ no.”

At last, Martin turned to meet his eyes. “Why aren’t you angry at me?”

“Uh, I am. I’m pissed. Doesn’t mean I suddenly despise you.” Tim did all he could to keep that anger out of his body language. Right now, when Martin was looking for the smallest reason to cut and run, it wouldn’t help.

Martin’s face was unreadable. “You didn’t have any trouble turning on a dime to despise Jon when you were angry at him.” Ignoring all context to present the situation in a way that’d needle Tim most. Tim wondered if Martin was going down a _How To Drive Away Everyone Who Loves You Because You’re a Self-Sacrificial Idiot_ checklist or something. 

“We had enough arguments about that back then for you to know there was a lot more going on.” Arguments, because it was safer to let off some steam with the person who you knew could take it and give it right back. Because they saw each other exhausted and afraid and quiet and excited and confused and plenty more; arguing wouldn’t unbalance that scope. 

Those arguments petered out when they found out that Sasha had been replaced, and Tim started to wonder how he could possibly trust anyone was who they said they were when this girl he’d known since they were scraggly, disastrous teenagers vanished without him wondering anything beyond why she’d gone suddenly cold. 

Even in that, something in the back of Tim’s head refused to stop associating Martin with _real._ Maybe it was because in those awful corridors, they were the only fixed point the other had. Shoulders, hands, mouths. Real.

Now, Martin’s shoulders curved in. His hands held tight to the folders against his chest. His mouth stayed firmly closed, only breaking that seal with words that cut.

“Not even when he came back and was sorry. You still didn’t care.” This, they hadn’t argued about. There hadn’t been time. 

“I didn’t bother because it’s a lot easier to leave enemies than friends.” Tim copied his level, quiet tone. “But I don’t think you need me to tell you that.” 

Martin didn’t say anything. Neither did Tim. The dark circles under Martin’s eyes made his chest hurt. 

“I… I need to see this through, Tim.” There was nothing in his voice besides cotton-soft fog and acceptance.

“And I need you to not _die_.”

The corner of Martin’s mouth twitched like he was going to retort and decided it wasn’t worth the effort. “Please, just… Stop finding me.”

And g-d, Tim wanted to tell him to shut up, because if anyone could find a living soul _anywhere_ it was him. Fog-clouded, running from any other contact, Tim could find him. 

Pressure wasn’t working, though. It wasn’t helping Martin — was it? Should Tim push anyway, and hope the walls Martin built day in and day out might be molded around him? Could he take that risk, when Martin made it so clear that he would do or say anything he thought had a chance of slashing whatever might still be between them apart?

The only option he could see was making a move before Martin could. He’d have to hope it worked better than it had when he tried the same against Peter.

It was easier to leave an enemy than a friend. Tim needed to make sure Martin couldn’t turn him from the latter to the former.

“...Alright. But if—” There was no logic in the red hot iron bands that made his chest feel so tight, choking the sentence before it could go anywhere. All he could do was try again. “If I feel pulled your way, I _will_ intervene. I don’t care what you say. I don’t care if you hate me after.” 

Martin didn’t say anything, only nodded. 

“Then alright. Alright, I won’t keep finding you.”

All went quiet, then Martin murmured, “Thank you.” _Thank you._ Like Tim wasn’t failing him. Like he wasn’t just standing back and letting Martin walk himself into hell. “And…” Something crept onto Martin’s face, something close to regret. “I’m sorry.”

Before Tim could give anything like absolution, Martin turned and walked away. Each step made the edges of his form blur and waver until it was hard to pick him out of the gloom at all.

Still here, Tim knew. Still that same warm, steady, _real_ point of light. 

He didn’t try to find it, and in a moment Martin was gone.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The strongest pull Tim had ever felt made for an effective, awful distraction, and by the time he got back to the Institute he felt about ready to fall over. When he went into the archives, it was mere moments before Jon came up to his side once again.

“What happened, you— Was it the plane crash, I saw—”

“You _saw—”_

“On the news, Tim.” 

“Right. Right, sorry. Bit tense.” Tim let himself fall back onto the wall behind him. “Long day.”

The ever-present sharp line of worry between Jon’s brows grew deeper. “I imagine so, I saw there was a— a high death count.”

“One hundred and fourteen.”

“How many did you…?”

“I don’t think you need the Eye to know the answer to that one.” 

Christ, he was tired.

Jon studied him a moment longer before leaning on the wall next to him. If Tim had any sort of form, their shoulders would be brushing. Hand tight on his cane and mouth tighter, Jon asked, “Have you spoken to Martin since your argument?”

“Yeah. Asked me to stop finding him. Apologized.” His voice was rough.

Jon didn’t prod further. He could probably feel the sheer helplessness radiating off Tim, and guessed how that conversation had gone nowhere Tim had wanted and everywhere he had expected. 

“I don’t know what we do now.” Jon made his confession to the shelves around them rather than Tim himself. 

“Me, either.” 

Jon’s head tilted to the side as if to lean on Tim’s shoulder, but there was nothing there. Nothing. Nothing to lean on, nothing that could support him.

He couldn’t take it. The ache to _be_ and _touch_ and _hold_ never left, never, but now it was so vicious he felt like he might just claw his own skin off if it meant not feeling its hunger. 

With a single clumsy motion, he pushed off the wall. “I— I’m sorry, I need to go, I—” 

Jon didn’t look hurt. He didn’t look confused. There was only grief. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Basira’s voice describing the fire swamp that trapped Buttercup and Westly wasn’t a perfect balm, but it gave him a chance to think about anything that wasn’t plane crashes or fog or Jon’s sad, sad eyes. 

He passed the blue stress ball from one hand to the other. Back and forth. Back and forth. A simple grounding exercise before, something that made him feel a little more present. Real. _Real._

“Failure is not a problem,” she read. “It is not a problem to be considered, so forget failure.” 

Tim had failed, yes. Failure was not a problem. Forget failure. He passed the ball back and forth, back and forth, and thought of that ghost of a smile. 

“With his last breath he would pull them both up to life." Every word was smooth and steady. “Which is exactly what happened.”

He would pull them both up to life. Forget failure. 

Back and forth. Back and forth. 

Maybe he didn’t have the perfect cinematic tether Westly used to pull Buttercup from the quicksand. He had an old stress ball and no small amount of desperation. 

Forget failure. 

If Basira noticed him staring at the ball in his hand, she didn’t see it as something worth pausing for. Considering she kept steady pace even when he was a bloodsoaked mess slumped against the far wall, it was little surprise. She trusted him to speak if he needed to pause. He trusted her to detect that something was wrong if he for some reason couldn’t. 

She read on. “‘Come,’ he said. ‘We have far to go.’ ‘Not until you tell me,’ she replied. ‘Why must we endure this?’”

Tim knew why they were enduring this hell. He needed no explanation. All he needed was for Martin to understand that he had people ready and waiting to pull him free — that all he had to do was ask. 

As the chapter closed on Buttercup agreeing to go along with the Prince if it ensured that Westly would be left unharmed, Tim knew he couldn’t go back in time and keep Martin from making the same damn call. 

Jesus, they should have picked a different book. 

Basira looked up from the page. “Do you want to keep going?”

“No, it’s… It’s fine. Thanks.” 

“Yeah.” She set it aside. “D’you want to talk about what happened?”

“Plane crash. Hundred dead. Basically abandoned Martin. What’s there to talk about?” 

“It’s a yes or no answer.” Blunt, to the point. Didn’t put up with his meandering. There was a reason he always came here.

Tim shook his head. “No, I just… I’ll be right back.” 

Despite some clear confusion, Basira didn’t argue. She knew Tim sometimes left abruptly, though now it wasn’t for any pull from the End. Now, it was because the lighthouse point in fog was missing from its usual place. Not gone. Absent.

His steps weren’t hurried. He passed that old blue ball from hand to hand, thinking of shoulders and hands and mouths and reality in unreal twisted endless nowhere. 

The worn plastic in his hand made no noise as he set it gently on Martin’s desk. He thought of Martin when he looked at it, and could only pray that went both ways. 

This was no perfect, cinematic rescue. It wasn’t a well-composed, eloquent letter that detailed everything Tim felt and convinced Martin to rely on those that cared for him. 

It said nothing beyond, _You gave me this when I needed it, and now I’m giving it back to you._

It wasn’t a goodbye, but Tim couldn’t shake the burn of the Witness anyway. 

**Author's Note:**

> the next installment is one i've been RARING to write since day one so prepare yourselves bc i'm gonna go hog fucking wild
> 
> coming soon: one promise is fulfilled, another is made
> 
> catch me at [@titanfalling](https://titanfalling.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
